Her father caught her and held her fast, saying not a word, but covering her face with kisses.
"Come in, come in to the warm," cried the kind-hearted Irish woman, wiping her eyes. "Come in out o' the cold." And with eager hospitality she hurried the father and children into the house.
As they passed in, Paulina turned away. Before Mrs. Fitzpatrick shut the door, Irma caught her arm and whispered in her ear.
"Paulina, is it? Let her shtop—" She paused, looking at the Russian.
"Your pardon?" he enquired with a bow.
"It's Paulina," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, her voice carrying the full measure of her contempt for the unhappy creature who stood half turning away from the door.
"Ah, let her go. It is no difference. She is a sow. Let her go."
"Thin she's not your wife at all?" said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, her wrath rising at this discovery of further deception in Paulina.
He shrugged his shoulders. "She was once. I married her. She is wife no longer. Let her go."
His contemptuous indifference turned Mrs. Fitzpatrick's wrath upon him.